Part II – Italian Men: SPLAT

Dear Blog Readers– Below is Part II of Catherine’s hilarious tale and I will leave it to her except a few brief notes.  First to say I am pleased that she found some of the things she had read on my blog about Italian men and Italian culture to be true and second that I admire her high spirits, her sense of humor and her down-to-earth writing style.

As Catherine explained to me in an email, she was blown away by Alessandro’s attentions because “With my Australian ex-husband I could come into the house dressed in a clown suit and juggling knives and he wouldn’t lift his eyes from the football. Australian men love each other, sports, beer, cars, work, their kids, their mums, their dogs, their sporting equipment and their wives – in that order. Australian men take care of each other but the women in their lives take a back seat (and they probably have to move the beer cans and the pizza boxes off the back seat before they can sit there).”

I am not sure that is just Australian men, but I will leave other blog readers to comment.

CATHERINE’S TALE — Part II – Italian Men: SPLAT

As I said, we kept in touch. He emailed me first and signed off ‘many kisses Alex xxx’. So I responded, very friendly, very casually, just saying I’ll be coming back in December and I hope to catch up with him then. No expectations, no demands. Just ‘hope to see you sometime’. I thought that would be it.

Bam. Along came the emails. These are verbatim:

hi sweety for me it’s a great dream to meet you again i miss you call me sometimes i want ear your warm voice a sweet kiss on your sweet lips!!!

my sweet angel i start to counted each day until the 29 december I want kiss you surround and……i wish you too and i wish you want me i love the dark lingerie i want massage your body and……i waiting for you!!!

They are just a couple. Phew! Every time I read one I had to go and have a Tylenol and a lie-down on the sofa!

So…there I was, counting down three months until I can see him again. I had all these fantasies swirling around in my head. This is how they ran:

1.    I would be my new skinny self, wearing skinny jeans, blazer, scarf, boots – looking like THE bella figura.

2.    I would be signing on in the hotel lobby, he would burst through the door, sweep me off my feet and cover me with kisses. We would then make haste to the stunning hotel room I was paying an absolute fortune for.

3.    Once in the room those pent-up months of passion would burst forth and it would be the GREATEST SEX OF MY LIFE EVER!

4.    Repeat the above fantasy at least 200 times per day for three months.

Okay…well we all know real-life often gets in the way of a good fantasy. So here is what really went on.

1.    I was my new skinny self. Tick box 1. Yay for me!

2.    We did meet in the hotel lobby….but he said ‘Hi Caty’ and shook my hand. What the??? EXCUSE ME??? Where are my kisses?

3.    Well that never happened….

4.    Re-write fantasy!

I also got a shock when I saw him in the lobby. The last time I saw him he was wearing mirrored sunglasses – it was hot, sunny and they were necessary – and in the ensuing three months, in my imagination he morphed into a cross between George Clooney and Alessandro Del Piero (the super hot Italian footballer). This time around, it was winter so sunglasses were not needed. What he WAS wearing was prescription glasses – that were like 100 coke bottles glued together, like airplane glass – his eyes were enormous. He looked like a Japanese anime character. The mirrored sunglasses of October were actually prescription – but I hadn’t noticed…Where was my George Del Piero??? My best friend Allison, who was with me, was dumfounded. I could read her face ‘Is THIS the guy you’ve been banging on about for three months?’

The Bay of Naples with view across to Mount Vesuvius

Oh well, he still had a cute face under the coke bottle glasses, I reasoned. He rather formally asked me to come outside for a chat.  Alison went back to her room for a few minutes so out we went onto Via Carraciolo. Such a beautiful street!! Sigh! He took me across the road to where the car was parked, sat me on the wall beside the water. Sigh! How romantic! He took my hands in his and then…..solemnly told me that he can’t be affectionate inside the hotel as ‘the manager lives there’ and ‘people know me’ and ‘everyone would tell my boss’ and ‘I would be in trouble and maybe fired’. Okay, I understand….I think…..and then, hidden from the hotel lobby by the car blocking the view, he leapt all over me, hands up my sweater and tongue in my mouth faster than I could even blink. ‘Ohhhhh Caty….you so sexy’ he purred. Then my girlfriend walked across the street and up he jumped like he’d been electrocuted. ‘Okay let’s go to Paestum!’ – it was back to business.

Paestum

Anyway, off we went to Paestum, my best friend Allison in the back seat, me in the front (carsickness, you know..). He was cute, chatty and friendly and held my hand, stroked my arm and recounted just about all of our last meeting on the way to Fiumicino Airport. He remembered it all – even down to me telling him I was seeing Red Hot Chili Peppers in January. I was seriously flattered. At Paestum, he sent us off, whispering to me to ‘come back early if you can’. We went to explore the temples while he waited (there is ‘protocol’ about drivers accompanying tourists into sites which he explained to me later – it’s frowned upon as it is seen to be taking revenue away from the guides – and it’s all about not upsetting anyone and looking good in front of people, right?).

To say I was itching to get back to him for one of those amazing kisses was a massive understatement. I barely glanced at the magnificent temples, desperately trying to think of a way to ditch Allison and get some serious make-out time. My chance came in the museum – woo hoo! Allison looks at every square inch of everything and reads every word, so I told her I was done. She rolled her eyes. She knew! I didn’t care – BAM – I was outta that museum like Usain Bolt out of the blocks. When I got back to the car, he asked me if I wanted to ‘relax in the back seat’. Great! My kissing time has arrived! I hopped in the car, shut the door and I think I spoke three words before he lunged for me, covering my face with kisses, lifting my shirt and simultaneously unbuttoning his pants, my jeans and undoing my bra whilst lowering me across the seat, saying ‘you so sexy woman…I want you now’.

Jeepers!!! His desire for me was overwhelming, his kisses were just like fireworks – BUT….We were in a tourist carpark!!!! There were people everywhere!!! My best friend could rock up at any second and see us!!!!!  The windows of the car weren’t even tinted!!!! I think I managed to mumble that I wasn’t exactly comfortable with this and I had a VERY EXPENSIVE hotel room back in Naples just for this intended purpose. So he graciously and very slowly zipped himself – and me – up and said that he understood I was uncomfortable with the situation and that was okay. Phew!

All I wanted was one of those beautiful kisses I got at the airport and he wanted to hit a homer in the car…in broad daylight. What??

Then, he looked down at the perfect black turtleneck he was wearing. Only now it was not so perfect. It was covered in pink angora fur from the sweater I was wearing. Uh-oh. It was the only time I saw him drop the bella figura. He whipped it off and flapped it around like a sail in a hurricane (he said ‘Mamma Mia’ over and over) – I was almost purple trying not to laugh at both this expression and his canottiera! The guy was 35 and still wearing one!! – I was remembering your post on Italian mammas dressing their kids. Wonder if Mamma checked if he was wearing it before he left the house?

(see Blog Posts “Fevers, Food and Clothing” and “Espresso, Corruption, Murder…and the Bella Figura” )

We drove back to Naples. All was well. He was cute, flirty, stroking my hand – and he dropped us at Piazza del Plebiscito which was packed with Italians on holiday. He got out of the drivers’ side, opened my door and let me out. I reached toward him for a hug – and got the Italian twin-cheek peck instead and a nice stiff, formal ‘ciao’. Huh??? Whaaaaa???

Piazza del Plebiscito, Naples

That night was New Years’ Eve. I was up for hours, enjoying the fireworks with Allison and the free sparkling wine the hotel provided. I stayed up until 5am, chatting with the hotel’s night manager about university and learning English. He locked the hotel doors at 5am and off I went to bed.

Pompeii - Temple of Jupiter

A day later – Pompeii and Herculaneum. Alessandro showed up wearing this snappy Burberry trench, scarf, shoes so polished you could perform microsurgery in their shine. Whilst on the way to Pompeii he told me that at 5:15 am on New Years’ Day, he was at the hotel door, desperate to get up to my room under cover of darkness and it was LOCKED!. I’d gone to bed just before that. I missed my opportunity with Alessandro by all of FIFTEEN MINUTES! Noooooooo. Why didn’t you call me? He didn’t have my number – he periodically deletes it in case his mamma sees it and asks questions. WHAT???

Man, was I cursing. Anyway, seeing my disappointment he said ‘I have special arrangement for tomorrow on Amalfi Coast – we can be alone – it will be special’. I didn’t ask for specifics, thinking he had a friend who had a room….yay, it’s fantasy time again!! I shut my eyes and relished the hot Italian sex I would have in just under 24 hours – wooo hooooo!!!

The view of Positano, a small town on the Amalfi Coast

After Pompeii and Herculaneum and another stiff, twin cheek peck at the hotel, it was off to Amalfi Coast the next day. We stopped at a vantage point for photos and spent ten minutes at the lookout having the most amazing, sexy kiss of my life. Oh. My. God. I was jelly all over again. And it was overlooking Positano! Stuff of dreams! This never happens to Catherine the ordinary woman from Australia! Never! He whispered to me about giving me a signal at the restaurant where we were having lunch. He said ‘We have to be careful because I come here all the time and people know me (this was getting so predictable), so I’ll say to you: come with me I want to show you something’ – and that would be my cue for THE BEST SEX EVER OF MY LIFE!! In a gorgeous hotel overlooking Positano!!!! I could hardly wait!!

So, I sit down at the restaurant. He comes over. Says his line. Allison rolls her eyes. Off we go. And I follow him. Down a corridor. To the left. To the right. And into…….the restaurant rest room. Yes…..the REST ROOM! This was to be the location for the best sex ever of my life. This was his ‘special, secret place’. Before I had a chance to wail in protest, he ushered me into a rather large cubicle that had two basins – that’s all I saw before he leapt on me, kissing me everywhere while doing his magic act of managing to unbutton me and him at the same time while shoving my hand down his underwear and his hands in my bra. His passion and desire were explosive. It was like he hadn’t had sex since the Bush Administration….the first one! It was amazing to be desired like that, how beautiful but….Oh. Dear. God. I could hear toilets flushing. The car was better than this. Noooooooooooooooo. He stopped. You’re not relaxed, he said. (No shit, I thought). Er – Alessandro, no this is not okay. I have a VERY EXPENSIVE hotel room back in Naples. I was getting petulant by now – why can’t we use it! I told you why, he said. People might see me and my boss will find out! Well, we buttoned, zipped and let ourselves out without being seen of course. I fled to the restaurant table, hair mussed and face flushed to the disapproval of my best friend. Well? She said. Did you? No. Let’s just order, okay…..

That was the last I saw of him as we said our goodbyes back at the hotel and left Naples. His reasoning for me not wishing to have sex on those occasions was that ‘I am a lady’ (his words). Gulp. No not really, I said. It’s just that I don’t do cars, I don’t do bathrooms AND I have a VERY EXPENSIVE HOTEL ROOM. Which was never used. What a waste.

I have since found out via Google, again, that Italian men like Alessandro who live with their mammas rarely have sex. If they do, it is in cars – hence his lack of embarrassment about sex in a car or a BATHROOM. My God. I haven’t had sex in a car since about 1982 and as for a bathroom – well NEVER EVER and I’m not sorry about that either.

But as comical and ridiculous as the above story sounds, I did have a wonderful time. He called me his ‘chou-chou’ which is a Neapolitan candy as well as a pet name for people the Neapolitans think are sweet. He would reach across and touch my cheek at unexpected moments. One time he looked at me, sighed and said ‘you are so beautiful’. His sexual desire for me also wasn’t fake. He really, really wanted me and I don’t believe he was a serial seducer either. If he did this often with other tourist women, he would have a perfect plan in place (like a room) and would understand that most of us American/British/Australian women don’t do cars in broad daylight in tourist car parks – or bathrooms at lunch rush hour! And he had no idea – he thought his plans were perfectly acceptable and was totally bewildered when I slammed on the brakes.

Alessandro – you were gorgeous in a sweet, naïve way. I hope to see you again one day. And I really mean that. In spite of your coke bottle glasses. Next time I’ll rent an apartment – in Sicily – maybe you know no one there.

24 thoughts on “Part II – Italian Men: SPLAT”

  1. Ciao Chow Linda

    Here I am, unable to sleep at 3:50 am in the US and I read this absolutely, hysterically funny account of Catherine and her would- be Italian lover. Now I’ll never get to sleep for all the laughing. I know I won’t be dreaming of being led to a bathroom or a car park by an Italian seducer wearing coke-bottle glasses. You can’t make up stuff this good. This would be a hilarious scene in a movie or sitcom.

    1. So true! Catherine is an awesome storyteller. When she first sent me her story on my private email, I kept pulling it up again and again on my blackberry while I was sitting in my car and would laugh all over again all by myself. It is just so funny. Definitely would make a great scene– or several scenes — in a movie!

  2. . . a total hoot! The car bit had me re-living a certain incident that involved the back seat of a borrowed car; a canvas sun roof, stilleto heels and and a police sargeant and his torch – but that is as much as I’m telling!
    Catherine, if you read this, ‘Thanks for the memories . .’

    1. Oh Alan, you can’t tease us like that! We want the whole story! Catherine told us hers…c’mon! Stiletto heel through a canvas car roof…

  3. I’m with Linda – you can’t make this stuff up. This is laugh out loud, laugh so hard you are crying kind of reading. Bathroom, car park and a Lothario in coke bottle glasses – thanks, Trisha! This one rocked. And I love the shot of the egg. Nice touch.

    1. Yes! And how about the pink agora fuzz balls on the black sweater. Fabulous! Again, I have to thank Catherine for sharing her riotous story, I have had such fun with it.

  4. Hey Trisha and followers! it’s ‘Catherine’ here

    I’m loving these comments – so glad you’re all finding this funny. Believe me, at the time I wasn’t laughing. My wonderful fantasy was going straight down the gabinetto. I had it all planned so perfectly but the other human component in the plan (a) didn’t know about the plan and (b) was Italian.

    You may wonder why he was so concerned about being watched in a hotel, after all, they’re busy places and no one would notice him slipping in or out, right? Well, it wasn’t large – it’s a boutique hotel with only 20 rooms and was once a private residence. The lobby – if you could call it that – was a couple of stairs and a small landing with the reception desk bang in front. You had to walk alongside the reception desk to get to the rooms, so there was no way to avoid being seen by the hotel staff – who, by the way, were very courteous. They would always do a quick ‘boob check’ when handing over my key. Just to make sure my boobs hadn’t fallen off or been kidnapped by the Camorra while I was out. All part of the Neapolitan service I guess. When picking us up for the day trips, Alessandro would wait there for us, all spick and span and shiny, coke bottles glittering in the light from the dusty chandelier, gossiping with the desk guy about my boobs – well I’m sure they weren’t talking about the latest EU Crisis or Mario Monte’s austerity measures. (Alessandro wasn’t interested in politics. He told me so. He said joining the EU was the worst thing that ever happened to Italy and ‘the worst day ever was when we got rid of the Lira! Mamma Mia!’). The hotel owner did live there, too, because he was always in the plush, Baroque lounge area in the evenings with his two haughty Neapolitan dogs, making sure the staff were being the best Bella Figura’s they could be and pouring free drinks for his rich guests. Well, you had to be rich to afford the 180 euros per night they charge.

    It was such an odd hotel – in an Agatha Christie meets Fawlty Towers kind of way. The building was over 150 years old, things didn’t work, the elevator had doors you had to close yourself, it had dark corners, fussy little sitting rooms, the staff appeared to come out of the walls, like Lurch in the Addams Family and the automatic front door was broken so we were always either being locked out or locked in. The staff was an odd assortment of characters, too. After doing the compulsory boob check and handing over my key, one of them asked me my age. I refused to say, joking that ‘you never ask a woman her age – it’s rude!’ – and he said ‘oh well, if you won’t tell me I’ll just look it up – we scanned your passport’. I thought he was joking too so I laughed – but then he phoned me in my room about five minutes later and breathlessly said ‘WOW YOU DON’T LOOK FIFTY, I THOUGHT YOU WERE 35!’ (Mind you, the compliment was nice so I didn’t get too uppity about the INVASION OF PRIVACY!)

    The major bummer for me was that Alessandro RECOMMENDED this place so therefore I assumed he could easily partake of a few pleasant hours in the hotel room with me. But all I got was a few teenage fumbles. Boo hoo. In fact, in the plane on the way home I was sitting there, throwing myself a giant pity party, complete with tissues and copious amounts of red wine, and lamenting that it all went so horribly wrong. Waaaaahhhh! Now I have to re-join E-Harmony!! Even bigger Waaahhhhh! But hey, Dr. Phil and Oprah would tell me to turn my thoughts around and make the whole experience a positive one. So this is the positive and I’m so grateful to you, Trisha for telling it for me and for your wonderful introductions and accompanying photos.

    (Oh – and during the – er – romantic bathroom and carpark episodes – his glasses STAYED ON! He never took them off. Seriously. Up close they are even scarier. If Christopher Nolan ever needs a new Batman villain, I’ll just draw up a quick facial composite and fax it off)

    1. The Addams Family Hotel! What a riot! Catherine, I just love the way you write. Thanks so much for adding your comment. I wish some blog readers might come out and share their tales about Italian men too.

  5. Hysterical…thanks to you both for sharing all the “intimate details! Back in 1969 I was nearly raped by an Italian boy on a bicycle in Busslengo (Verona) who graciously offered to “show me around. ( I was 21, he was maybe 15?) I am certain now Italian males are all the same. How does this happen?

    1. Hi Barbara — you’ve have touched on a very serious topic that deserves a post of its own – rape in Italy. There has been a lot of controversy over the topic since I came to Italy in 1993. Italians have had a trouble getting past the old views that “crimes of passion” were somehow inevitable. Even recently a parish priest got in hot water by saying women provoke men into raping them by wearing sexy clothing. He said something along the lines of “men can’t control their instincts.” Sigh. Anyway, it is an important topic and one I will eventually address on this blog, but I don’t want to do so here as it would take away from Catherine’s funny story.

  6. American Mamma

    Furbo. That’s the word that comes to my mind about Italian men–“tricky, cunning, crafty, sly, wise, artful” as Google Translate describes it. Oh, I have a tale to tell about an Italian man I crossed paths with some 27 years ago. But your blog hasn’t sufficient space to tell this story. It requires a book as it is quite a novella. Trisha, I always knew I was a writer and you’ve inspired me to write. Catherine’s story has now stirred the pot a little more for me. My book has been a bit on the back burner with the holidays and all. Contemplating signing up for the next session of a memoir writing class I took last fall. I have just scratched the surface of the story with my teenage self deboarding a plane in Milan. My classmates were in stiches just hearing about the vacation preparations and ride to the airport with my overprotective, tiny bit neurotic dad. You can imagine the gasp I received when I fast forwarded a bit and revealed to my audience of fellow memoir writers that the object of my desire/obsession was now a 55 years old, never married Italian man still living at home with Mamma. By the way, the name of the chapter that evoked the gasp was “Dear Mozzarella Mamma.” I kid you not. So thanks for being a good springboard for me.

    Catherine, I so identified with you in your story, although I don’t know if I could have overlooked the Coke bottle glasses. But it could be. Italian men have a way to put you under a trance or a spell. My guy was perfect in every way…or so it seemed. But why why why do these men have to string together so many beautiful words, both spoken and written and make you believe them? Because they are artists. Yes, word artists. It all makes perfect sense now. It’s in their DNA. The world’s best artists have been spawned from Italia. They appreciate aesthethic beauty, romance, poetry, food, wine, beautiful landcapes. The name of their capitol? Roma. The operative root word of romance?Roma. Coincidence? I think not. The land of Romeo and Juliet, A Room with a View and Cinema Paradiso. The stuff of fairy tales. Ground Zero for my tourist heart.

    But then reality sets in and there is nothing there to back it up. Italian men can be quite selfish. It’s all about them and what can you do for them. I interviewed such a specimen a few summers ago, while on vacation. I asked him why many Italian men can’t commit to marriage. Aside from telling me about the extremely high divorce rate, expense and number of years it takes to get a divorce, he recounted the story of how he met his ‘girlfriend’ or ‘fidanzata’ (fiance that he will never marry.) He had met her at a party and at their first introduction he said, “Hello. My name is Paolo. I’m not interested in getting married, I don’t want children and if you are still interested then let’s get together.” Hmmmm. I guess that pick up line worked for him and even more so the arrangement of living separate lives as a couple works because they are still ‘together’ after two decades. To each, his/her own. Or maybe why buy the cow, when you can get the milk for free? Furbo.

    Thank you Catherine for sharing your story. I did LOL several times and thank you Mozzarella Mamma for always asking questions and bringing cultural issues to light. Why are Italian men so suave and sexy? DNA I say. They are born with it. Then mix in the beautiful backdrop of Italy and that’s it. You’re screwed! Literally. My word of advice to Italian men. Better get busy procreating your DNA or the Italian birthrate may just drop to negative zero and then who will carry on this great civilization of artists and lovers?

    1. American Mamma — Thank you for this wonderful comment. Yes, indeed, Italian men are FURBO! I think you summed it up perfectly: “With Italian men you’re screwed, literally!” Although, in Catherine’s case, she never quite managed to get there. I think you also have some good tales to tell and we would all love to hear them!! If you want to share some juicy tidbits, I am happy to stick them in my blog. I do understand though if you are writing a book, you might want to hang on. You have also given me a couple of important topics for future posts– Divorce — friends in Italy tell me it is a nightmare that takes forever. But worse then divorce is getting the a marriage annulment from the Vatican — boy do I have some stories to tell on that one. Thanks again for your great comment.

  7. I’m sure Alessandro chose the hotel because it belongs to some relative or family friend, and this is the reason for his discretion. Of course he can’t be seen fooling around with the Australian tourist because that news would quickly be divulged to someone who would disapprove (not sure who in this case…mamma or girlfriend). I doubt that his excuse of professionalism holds much merit…just ask the chief boob checker at the desk!

    I’ve witnessed the sex in public restrooms. I mean, from the next stall. I remember being entirely disturbed by the dirtiness of it all and thought a car in the lot would be a much, much better choice for this middle-aged horny couple, and for my curious six year old who was in the bathroom with me.

    Thanks for sharing, Catherine. I enjoyed both parts as well as your description of the hotel in the comments.

    D

    1. Dana — thanks for your comment. Good Grief, being in the next stall with a six-year-old would be a nightmare. I can just imagine the questions. “Mom, why are there two people in there, why are they making those noises?”

      I will just use this comment space to add that a lot of my friends and relatives have been writing to me and calling me saying how much they enjoyed this post. An Italian friend said to me today “Trisha, I laughed so hard at your story, it can’t be true, you made it up.” I promised her and I promise all my blog readers that Catherine’s story is true and that she even sent me a photo of Alessandro complete with coke bottle glasses. Obviously, I won’t post the photo, but it made me laugh.

  8. This is just superbly HILARIOUS! I’m at work now and can’t stop laughing! Just few weeks ago an Italian man sent me a huge rose bouquet to my office and he’s been texting me about meeting up for lunch. After reading this, should I be concerned? Hahahaha probably as long as it does not involve getting lucky at the rest room.

    1. Isn’t that a funny story! Well I say, you should take the flowers and the text messages and the lunch but now you’ve been forewarned, avoid the bathroom!!

  9. OK, so I’m late to the party, but I thought I would share “La Mia Storia di L’uomo Italiano.” (I will post in 2 parts)

    It was my first time in Venice and my third time in Italy – a beautiful April’s afternoon and the afternoon sun was glistening on the Grand Canal. I had an Aperol Spritz in my hand (ok, maybe it was my third) while lounging at the edge of a Grand Canal bar/restaurant watching the glorious afternoon light twinkle on the water like little fireworks. I was so happy, I know that I was smiling from ear to ear as I was so happy to be there and feeling that life could not be more perfect than that beautiful moment. Then I felt that little twinge – you know that little twinge of insecurity that slowly travels up your spine and settles between your brain and begins to buzz like an alarm clock. Well I felt it and I looked around and there he was just staring – smiling and staring. How typical I thought – a gondolier. I took a gulp of the spritz and buzz, buzz, buzz – I looked up again and there he was still staring and smiling. Tall, dark,thirty-something with mirrored sunglasses and muscles peeking from his nicely fitted striped uniform, just typically what a girl would think an Italian Casanova would look like. I paid my tab and had to walk past Casanova (now with his partner who just rowed up) in order to exit the area.

    As I got nearer, Casanova came up to me and told me how much he loved watching me – how happy I looked, how “beeyooteeful-a” I was and introduced himself. Alas, his name was not Casanova, but Ugo, and he also introduced his friend “dees ees my friend Franco – my partner – but he ees not as good a gondolier as I am and to prove theees to you – I will take-a you on my gondola.” At first I thought “how silly and stereotypical all of this is” but then I thought “hell, I’m in Italy and when in Venice – ride a gondola!” And so I asked him how much for a ride and he said – “No cost-a for you-a, mia tesoro. I-a just want-a show a bee-yooteeful–a woman my beeyooteeful-a Venezia.” But I know that nothing in life is ever free…however I also know kickboxing so I said sure. Besides he was so so hot and up to now had beautiful manners so I didn’t think I’d be in too much trouble. The ride started out down the Grand Canal and then took off down some side canals with him reciting some history: “There is Marco Polo’s house and Casanova’s house (later I found out that it wasn’t Casanova’s house as Casanova slept at random places that pleased him all around Venice) and to the right was the Temple of the Foolish American Tourist….” I began asking him several questions about the city and being a gondolier, football (yay, Juventus!), and then expanded into the region of the Veneto and a skip around politics (maybe the words Lega Nord passed my lips once or twice). I think he was surprised that a girl from Los Angeles knew so much about Italy. One of his responses was “where did you come from – because you not come from America – ees not possible – how you know so much about my country?”

    He asked if I wanted to get on the prow of the gondola with him and he would teach me to row. Heck, I’m game! It was his way of him getting his arms around me – I acted like I was surprised, but it was sweet and besides, I really thought it was cool to learn how to row one of those things and it’s not easy at all! He explained that he had one of the oldest gondolier’s licenses in the city. He is a tenth generation gondolier and his license was passed down through generations of men in his family. He was very romantic and while telling me about himself, he would stop and come sit beside me and finally he asked – yes ASKED to kiss me. Hot and charming and chivalrous…a deadly combination in my book. He slowly touches my face, looks into my eyes like he is looking into my soul and kisses me like one of those kisses you see in the movies, but never have in real life because the men you date are American and they really don’t take the time to learn how to seduce women. Instead of spelling, penmanship and math, Italian men are taught flirting, kissing and seduction in elementary school. Anyway, Ugo asked if he could take me to dinner and I said yes (like I was going to say no??)…and then he rowed me back to my canal-side hotel.

    That night we had a lovely dinner and seriously made out with under an (almost) full moon on his boat (not the gondola) with a fabulous bottle of Brunello. It was an amazing night…and he was a gentleman as he didn’t push things too far. But things went further as the days went on and he stayed with me at my hotel the next night…because at 35 (and even though he makes over £100,000/year he still lives with his parents! And of course who should come visiting my hotel early the next morning dropping off breakfast for her little boy, but Mama herself! Yes, we get a call in my room one morning and it is the front desk saying that Ugo’s mama is insisting upon delivering something to the room. Ugo quickly goes down to the front desk and brings up a small box with two paper bags in it. In the small bag is a breakfast pastry and there is a small thermos like bottle with fresh espresso. On the bag it is written some scrawl about “NON PER LA AMERICANA!!!!” with four exclamation points. Like I would deny this boy’s pastry from him! What does this woman take me for – some cronut snatching hussy? In the other larger bag was…I shouldn’t even write this because you would not believe this, it is so embarrassing, but mama included a clean pair of undies for Ugo. (She will probably burn the dirty ones.) Ugo said that she just wanted to make sure he had something to eat before he went to work.

    1. Trisha Thomas

      Oh my God!!! This is hilarious — love the note from the Mamma “NON PER LA AMERICANA”! This is worth a separate blog post by itself. I am on to part II…

  10. Here’s Part Two of “La Mis Storia di L’uomo Italiano”:

    I asked him why he still lived at home. “Why should I move, and even though I do not like my mama, she takes good care of me”

    “You don’t like your mama”

    “No – ees long story. I have confession.”

    “Do I look like your priest?”

    “I have a daughter. She is 10 years old.”

    “Do you have a wife?”

    “No, my mama would not allow me to marry her. Mama said that this girl was only after the money of a gondolier and did not love me for me. When this girl got pregnant my mama told me and my father – a gondolier who was about to hand over his license to me – that if the girl had a son (a son that could, in turn inherit my license from me) then we could get married, but if she had a daughter and we got married then mama would insist that father give the license to my cousin instead…and would have nothing.

    “Wow. I can understand why you have conflicting feelings towards your mother. Do you see your daughter? Yes, I see her when I can – her mother married another gondolier….”

    “Oh…”

    Mama continued to come by for the next 4 days I spent in Venice. Ugo and I had the most amazing sex of my life. Ugo has ruined my life for anything but Italian men. We made love on his gondola on a moonless night on the Grand Canal and off of Torcello.

    There were more revelations as we got to know each other:

    “ I have a confession.”

    “Do I look like your priest?”

    “Vianello is not my last name.”

    “Who are you?”

    “ I am so ashamed and can understand if you no longer want to see me.”

    “Are you wanted for something? Are the Carbanieri looking for you? OMG is it M-A-F-I-A?”

    “No, no, no. Ees bad. My family carry the shame in our blood. The shame of Venezia. I have to tell you, but no one but family knows. I use my mother’s name, but my real family name is Faliero. There you know now.”

    “ Huh?”

    “Faliero! Faliero! The doge! The doge! The only doge that was for treason in Venezia – the only one that the people of Venezia execute. I carry that shame in my blood.”

    (I am thinking – you have got to be kidding me. I looked it up and the guy was executed for treason in 1355! That was over 600 years ago and Ugo is still carrying that with him? Talk about not letting go…is this a bad sign?)

    Ugo moved into his own apartment in Venice three years ago and proposed to me shortly thereafter. I considered it thoughtfully and even though I love him dearly, I cannot live in Venice and that is where his life is. He needs someone who will give him a son to continue the legacy that is so much of who he is and what Venice is. Unfortunately, I am not that person. I understand that, although it was hard to get him to understand that. I will always look back to the time with Ugo with laughter and love and with a smile…and not a bit of regret. I will never regret that third spritz or taking his hand and stepping on that gondola. It was the best ride of my life.

    (P.S. don’t worry, the names were changed)

    1. Trisha Thomas

      This story is awesome!! Can I publish it as a separate guest blog post with some photos of Venice?? let me know. You are a great writer and you make me laugh!!

      1. Hi Trisha – of course you may post it. I kind of ran through it all quickly. There was, of course, much more and the proposal was complicated as was the refusal and the “I don’t accept your refusal – I will change your mind!”

        Just to let you know, in my “former life” I used to be a publicist for rock bands (Van Halen, KISS, etc). I worked for Rogers & Cowan and for The Greek Theater here in Los Angeles. So I guess you could say I have had some practice at writing and enjoy good writing – especially yours. If you would like for me to “polish up the story, I can email it to you if you want to email me your address, I will send it to you. :-)

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